The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [348]
Heathcliff looked at me imploringly.
“I was outside when I heard the shot,” I told him.
“So were we!” exclaimed the rest of the cast eagerly, excepting Catherine Earnshaw, who simply scowled.
“Perhaps I should do it!” growled Havisham again. “Perhaps it would be a mercy. I could make it look like an accident!”
“No!” cried Heathcliff in a contrite tone. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to stay right here and just be plain old Mr. Heathcliff for ever and ever.”
Havisham slowly released her grasp. “Right,” she said, switching her pistol to safe and regaining her breath, “I think that pretty much concludes this session of Jurisfiction rage counseling. What did we learn?”
The cocharacters all stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Good. Same time next week, everyone?”
14.
Educating the Generics
Generics are the chameleons of the Well. In general they were trained to do specific jobs but could be upgraded if the need arose. Occasionally a Generic would jump up spontaneously within the grade, but to jump from one grade to another without external help, they said, was impossible. From what I would learn, impossible was a word that should not be bandied about the Well without due thought—imagination being what it is, anything could happen—and generally did.
THURSDAY NEXT,
The Jurisfiction Chronicles
BIG MARTIN HAD made a mess of the ProCath fanatics who had attacked us. The leader was identified by his dental records—why he had them on him, no one was quite sure. He had been a D-3 crew member in On the Beach and was replaced within twenty-four hours. Wuthering Heights was repaired within a few lines, and because Havisham had been holding the rage-counseling session between chapters, no one reading the book noticed anything. In fact, the only evidence of the attack now to be seen in the book was Hareton’s shotgun, which exploded accidentally in chapter 32, most likely as a result of a ricocheting bullet damaging the latching mechanism.
“How was your day today?” asked Gran as I walked back on board the Sunderland.
“Very . . . expositional to begin with,” I said, falling into a sofa and tickling Pickwick, who had come over all serious and matronly, “but it ended quite dramatically.”
“Did you have to be rescued again?”
“Yes and no.”
“The first few days in a new job are always a bit shaky,” said Gran. “Why do you have to work for Jurisfiction anyway?”
“It was part of the Exchange Program deal.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Would you like me to make you an omelette?”
“Anything.”
“Right. I’ll need you to crack the eggs and mix them and get me down the saucepan and . . .”
I heaved myself up and went through to the small galley, where the fridge was full of food, as always.
“Where’s ibb and obb?” I asked.
“Out, I think,” replied Gran. “Would you make us both a cup of tea while you’re up?”
“Sure. I still can’t remember Landen’s second name, Gran—I’ve been trying all day.”
Gran came into the galley and sat on a kitchen stool, which happened to be right in the way of everything. She smelt of sherry, but for the life of me I didn’t know where she hid it.
“But you remember what he looks like?”
I stopped what I was doing and stared out of the kitchen porthole.
“Yes,” I replied slowly, “every line, every mole, every expression—but I still remember him dying in the Crimea.”
“That never happened, my dear. But the fact—I should use a bigger bowl if I were you—you can remember his features proves he’s not gone any more than yesterday. I should use butter and not oil; and if you have any mushrooms, you could chop them up with a bit of onion and bacon—do you have any bacon?”
“Probably. You still didn’t tell me how you managed to find your way here, Gran.”
“That’s easily explained. Tell me, did you manage to get a list of the dullest books you could find?”
Granny Next was 108 years old and was convinced that she couldn’t die until she had read the ten most boring classics. On an earlier occasion I had suggested Fairie Queene, Paradise Lost, Ivanhoe, Moby-Dick, A la recherche du temps perdu, Pamela and A Pilgrim